FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


Division    6CO 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/laysmyhomeOOwhit 


LAYS   OF   MY   HOME, 


AM)    OTHER 


POEMS, 


BT 

JOHN    O.    WII  ITT  I  E  II 


B06TI  >N 

WILLIAM     I).    TICKNOB 

MDCCCXLIII. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1843, 

By  William  D.  Ticknor, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON  : 

PRINTED    BY    FREEMAN    AND    BOELES, 

WASHINGTON   STREET. 


CONTENTS 


LA  I 
T1IK  mtllMAOI  .... 

THK    NOIiSKMKN  .... 

THK    BALLAD    I 

THK    fUNULAL    TKIK    Of    THE    BOKOHI 

8T.    JOHN  ..... 

ms 

ITIN     IN     mi     I 

LUCT    BOOPZ1     

KOI. I.I.N 

TO    A    KK1ENT),    ON     II                                             I    Kl HOPE 
BAPHAKL 

i:\cv 


r»ii 
1 

11 

S6 

37 
11 

M 

58 


L1M  B    R  LL    P  AMPHI.ETS    Pl/B- 

LIshkd   BY    CLERGYMEN    A'  PHI    ABOLITION    Of 

THK  OALLOWB  ....... 


G6 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE 

THE    CYPRESS    TREE    OF    CEYLON 

CHALKLEY    HALL  ...... 

TO    THE    REFORMERS    OF    ENGLAND 
MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA       .... 

LEGGETT'S    MONUMENT 

TO   ,    WITH    A    COPY    OF    WOOLMAN's    JOURNAL 

MEMORIES  ....... 

THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY  .... 

THE    RELIC 

EXTRACT    FROM    A    NEW    ENGLAND    LEGEND     . 


71 

79 

83 

87 

90 

98 

99 

107 

111 

116 

120 


TO 

JOHN     PI  i:  R  PONT 


Not  as  a  poor  requital  of  the 
With  which  my  cliiltlliDo.l  heard  that  lay  of  thine, 
Which  like  u  echo  »»t  tl  ■  ioe 

At  Bethlehem  breathed  i 

to  my  <ar  tin-    \ 

\  t  to  the  Po.t.  bat  the  Man  I  l>: 

In  friendship'-  treat  my  offering  : 

Hon  much  it  laeki  I  feel,  and  thoa  wilt 

w»  11  1  know  that  thou  hast   dci  im  d  with  DM 

Life  all  too  earned  ami  its  time  too  short 
For  dreamy  -  iae  end  Fan 

And  girded  tor  th]  with  wrong, 

Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 

The  hroken  wal 

Hath  a  mde  martial  tone,  a  blow  m  every  thought  ' 
Amesbiuv,  loth  of  |th  mo..  I 


LAYS. 


POEMS. 


THE    mki;i;im.\ 


.ill  Merrimi 

lied  slant*  iae  do* 
W.i 

e  the  winding  Pon 
The  green  hill  in  >Id, 

And  following  down  its  wavy  I 

parkling  waters  bl<  nd  with  tl 
There  's  nol  ■  tree  upon  th; 
Nor  r  ck,  which  thy  returning  I 
As  yet  hath  lefl  abrupt  and  stark 
Above  thy  evi  tark  ; 

l 


M  THE    MERRIMACK. 

No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 
No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 
Thy  broad,  smooth  current ;  not  a  sail 
Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale  ; 
No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 
Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 
Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 
Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 
But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 
Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 
Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 
And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 
And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 
Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail 
Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ;  a 
And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 
The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 
As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 
Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 
Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 
The  Merrimack  rolled  down  his  flood  ; 
Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 
Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 

a  The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resigning  the  government 
of  the  colony  in  Virginia,  in  his  capacity  of '  Admiral  of  New-Eng- 
land,' made  a  careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Penobscot  to  Cape 
Cod,  in  the  summer  of  1614. 


THE    MERRIMACK.  3 

"When  sj>rirm-tirne,s  sun  an<l  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  mora  abundant  * 

From  thai  pure  la       **1 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain  side  — 

V  lark,  eternal  tide  ! 

.  ondei  ro 
The  itormy  challenge  of  tfa 

■  • 

hardy  A 
Planting  upon  the  topm 
The 

And,  while  from  out 

rimaon  cross  unrolled, 

1st  roll  <>t'  drum  and  trumpet  blai 
And  i  brandishing  in  air, 

1 1  that  lone  promont 

The  te  in  all  h 

ler,  the  flower  of  Islam1 
Whose  barems  lot  i  — 

Who,  when  thi  of  war  bad  b 

The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 

-  the 
ne  of  the  bi 
b  Capt.  9  to  the  promontory  not*  call 

nainr  oi   i  inda,  in  memory  of  hii  ntifbJ  mia- 

trc^s  of  thai  name,  who,  while  a  captive     ■  inople,  iikc 

Deadomaoa,  ••  Iot<  d  him  lor  the  dangen  he  had  passed." 


THE    MERRIMACK. 


"Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 


or 


But  look  !  —  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore  ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  distant  voice  of  twilight  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
W^hile  yonder  lonely  coast-light  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood  ; 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 
The  Mohawk's  softly-winding  stream  ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine  ; 


THE    MERRIMACK. 

And  autumn's  rain'  I  banner 

1 1     g  lightly  i  ' 

Jfet, 

Thy  wandering  child  l<  .  ■  i  thee! 

I         ■  in  his  dreams  dr. 

lunnuring  on  its  pebbly 
The  unfc  well  and  i 

1  : 

Ami  saw  amidst  tl:- 

hi, 

Thy  bub 

A  .    . .    \ 

The  loved  and  I 

red  '_r!-<>\ 
d  >till  in  childhood's  moinL 
Along  whose  b  n  ept 

What 

•  nich  the  charnel  1. 
Young,  gentle  i  ch  long  h 

And  while  the  gazer  Leaned  I 

ne  d«  ar  familial  i 
lb'  wept  to  find  tli'  '  u n  — 

A  phantom  and  a  dream 


THE    NORSEMEN 


Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  fragment  of  a  statue  rudely  chis- 
eled from  dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of  Bradford,  on 
the  Merrimack.  Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to  conjecture.  The 
fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  New  England,  some  centuries 
before  the  discoveries  of  Columbus,  is  now  very  generally  admitted. 

Gift  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A  relic  to  the  Present  cast ; 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  : 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  ; 


THE    NO  IIS  EM  EN. 

And  cultured  field  and  Bteepled  town 
Slop  illowed  margin  down. 

5    •.  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bring 
The  mellow  sound  of  church-bells  ringing, 
And  rolling  .  and  rapid  jar 

Of  the  fire-winged  and  -  ear, 

And  fir  >m  the  s  ar 

Come  quick  and  blended  <»n  my  • 

A  spell  is  in  this  old  gi     .  — 

My  thought 

A  change  1  —  the  Bteepled  town  n<>  m 

along  the  Bail-thronged  sin 
Like  palace-domes  in  sunset1 
Fade  Bun-gilt  Bpire  and  man  id  ! 

trally  rising  a  here  th<  • 
]        the  old,  primeval  wood  j 
Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 
]  solemn  waste  expand  : 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  bill, 
It  arches  o'er  the  rauey's  rill ; 
And  leans  from  cliff  and  <-niLr*  '<>  throw 

1'-  m  ild  arms  o1  r«aui  below  . 

Unco  one,  the  same  bright  river 

FIOWI  On,  as  it  will  flow  foreV<  I  I 

1  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Sofl  ripple  where  its  era 
J  hear  behind  the  pantht 

The  wild  bird's  scream  Lr'»cs  thrilling  by, 


THE    NORSEMEN. 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 
The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  !  —  from  wood  and  rook  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimack  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shown  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way ! 

Onward  they  glide  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky  : 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 


thi:  [EX. 

j   • 
nd  Runic  rliy: 

S 
I 

I  <ur 

Rou:. 

'I 

: 

—  ■ 
I 
i  in  air  — 

I 

Ami  1.  gain : 

T 

A  hruktn  mass  ofoomm 

if  it  be  *  >1  limb 

1  .  — 

i  of  War. 

I  h  l*r.i_r a  i  i  the  Runic 

Or  luve-awak 


10  THE    NORSEMEN. 

I  know  not  —  for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 
Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again  — 
The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 
And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 
To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  phantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  wo  and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 


In  the  following  ballad,  the  author  bai  iy  the 

etrong  aBthnaiaan  of  tl 

of  ill--  clergy  and  mpathy  a  . 

which  the  ••  common  ]>• 

spiritiril   di  . 

I 
culion  with 

nidation  tijM.ii  a  eome> 

ill  the  history  <>t'   Puritan   inti 

lam,  wh<>  !. 
impriaoned  and  d<  prired  of  all  his  propert)  I 
two  Qnakeri  at  his  boat 

.it  church,  which 

I 
which  ina\  still  be  seen  <>n  lh 

-  ••  fully  emp 
I  I 

An  attempt  waa 

bai   no  shipmaster  was   found    willing  to   oiivy  them  to  the    ■• 

[ndiee.    Vide  S  Biator 

To  the  God  of  all   sure   mercies   let   my 

to-day, 
From  the  ■coffer  and  the  cruel   he  hath  plucked  the 

■poil  away, — 


12  THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK. 

Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faithful 

three, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  his  handmaid 

free  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison 

bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell   the  pale 

gleam  of  stars ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all   through  the  long 

night  time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  Autumn's   early 

rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept  by ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adovvn  the 

sky; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which  seemed 

to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the 

morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  my 

sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained  for 

and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer  from  the 

fold! 


tiu:  wallah  of  c.vssandra  southwick.         I| 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  I  there  —  the  shrinking 

and  the  slim 

And  the  lo  i  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to  me 

"  Why  sit'st  thou  thus  forlornly !  "  the  wicked  mormur 
. 
thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth 
maiden  bed  ? 

M  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  and 

Seen  in  thy  I  heard  in  the 

Where  be  the  yoi  i  the  sun: 

bath  through 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  I 

thou   her  .  I         ndra  ?  —  Bethink 

with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  school  .  i  the  warm  b 

rth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  I  reheads  * 

and  lair, 
On  eyes  of  menrj  hid  in  golden  hair. 

Not  for  thee  the  hearth-  not  for  thee  kind 

won 
Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  lauc 


14  THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    S0UTHW1CK. 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are  laid, 
For  thee  no  flowers  of  Autumn  the  youthful  hunters 
braid. 

"  Oh  !  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  — by  crazy  fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread  ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure  and 
sound  ; 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and  sack- 
cloth-bound. 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock  at  things 

divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and  wine  ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the  pillory 

lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in  their 

shame. 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  ?  —  a  sadly  toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the   slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage  to 

the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !  " 

Oh  !  —  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's 

fears 
Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavailing 

tears, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CA5SA.NDRA  BOUTHWK  K.      15 

I  wrestled  down  the  evil    t!,  lent 

pr;.;.      . 
To  feel,  oh,  I!  i  !  — that  Thou  indeed 

wert  there  ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  Mud  Silas,  within  Philippics  cell, 
And    how   from    Peter1  3    the    pri 

shackles 

Till  I  seemed  to  bear  tl 

wh 

And  to  (eel  a  bless  d  ;  ■■■■ 

1  for  all  !  —  for  tl 

and  love  I  !• 
Like   dew   of  Hermon's    holy   hill,   upon    my   e 

melt ; 
When.  u  G 

my  be 
And  I  felt  the  r  with  all 

Slow  broke  t'.<  irning  :  again  the 

iked  with  '  bar  and  i  ithin  my 

londy  cell  ; 
The  hoar  frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and   upward   from 

the  Bl 
Came  careless  laugh  and  i  ,  and  tread  of  i 

ing  feet 


16  THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was  open 

cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street  I 

passed ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared  not 

see, 
How,  from  every  door  and  window,  the  people  gazed 

on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon  my 

cheek, 
Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling  limbs 

grew  weak : 
"  Oh,  Lord !  support  thy  handmaid  ;  and  from  her  soul 

cast  out 
The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare  —  the  weakness 

and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered  like  a  cloud  in 

morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whispering 

words  like  these  : 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven  a 

brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving  kindness  whose  power  is  over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit  waters 

broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly  wall  of 

rock ; 


THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK.  17 

The  merchants-ships  lav  idly  there,  in  hard  clear   lines 

(hi  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and    slender  spar  their  net-work  on 

the  iky. 

And    then-    wen   annent    Cltiw  I  -wrapped    and 

grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  tea-captain*  with  facea  bronzed 

and  old, 
And   on   hi-;    home,   with    Etaweofft,   his   cruel    clerk   at 

hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  t  1m *  ruler  of  the  land. 

And  poiaoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler9!  ready 

Tlic  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and 

and  jeer ; 
It  slinvd  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  (he  leal  I  I 

broke! 
A--  if  through  woman's  woaknnas  a  warning  -pin;  si 

I  cried,  "The  Lord  rehuke  thee,  t  r  of  tlie 

meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler  of  the 

weak  ! 
(>"  light   the  i\.i\k,  <'<)id   hearth-atooefl  —  go  turn  the 

priaoo  lock 

Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  ihou  wolf  amid  the 

flock  I" 


18  THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK. 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a  deeper 

red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of  anger 

spread  ; 
"  Good  people,"  quoth  the  white-lipped  priest,  "  heed 

not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her — the  Devil  owns  his 

child  ! '? 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the  while 

the  sheriff  read 
That   law  the   wicked    rulers  against  the    poor  have 

made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priesthood 

bring 
No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offering. 

Then   to   the   stout   sea-captains   the    sheriff   turning 

said  : 
Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take  this  Quaker 

maid  ? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's  shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian  girl  or 

Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood  the  captains ;  and  when  again  he 

cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !"  — no  voice  or  sign 

replied ; 


THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICk.  19 

But  I  felt  a  hard    hand   press  my  own,  and  kind  words 

ill*  t  my  i 
"  God  bl<  rve  thee,  my  gentle  girl  and 

dear  !  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  —  a  pitying 
friend  was  nigh, 

I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough   hand,  and  saw  it  in  I 

And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so  kind 

to  111'-, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring  rf the 

M  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver  —  paek  with 
Spanish  gold. 

From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  ro 

hold, 
By  the  living  <«<"i  who  made  me  !  —  I  would  soonef  in 

youi 
Smk  shi|>  and  crow  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child 

••  Writ  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their  cruel 

lan 
Ran   through   the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud   the  peo] 

just  applause. 
"Like  the  herdsman  ofTekoa,  in  Israel  i  I 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  silver 

1  ? " 


20  THE   BALLAD   OF   CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK. 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half  way- 
drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate  and 
scorn  ; 

Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle  rein,  and  turned  in  silence 
back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  murmuring 
in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of  soul ; 
Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground,  and  crushed  his 

parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled,  the 

ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well  re- 
leased." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept  round 

the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me  go 

my  way ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of  the 

glen, 
And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned  the  hearts  of 

men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed  be- 
neath my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky, 


THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK.  21 

A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill, and  stream  and  wood- 
land lay, 
And   softer   lapsed  on   sunnier  sands  the  waters  of  the 

bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  —  to  Bim  all  pr 
be, 

Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  Bet  h'.>  handmaid 

All  |-  I  powi  r  ': 

afraid, 
Who  taki  -he  poor 

is  laid  ! 

.  oh,  my  soul,  re  .      . 

calm 

Tplii't  the  loud  thanksgn    j  —  pour  forth  the  grateful 

p^a'in  ; 
id  ■    all    dear   h.arts  with  me  r< 

df  did, 
When  of  tin-  |  .d  angel  the  n  -Id. 

And  weep  ami  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty  men 
of  w  roi 

The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud  and  lay  II  :>  hand  upon 

the  strong. 
•  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour! 
Wo  to  the  wolves  who  nek  the   flocks  to  raven  and 

devour  : 


22  THE    BALLAD    OF    CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK. 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  —  the  poor  in  heart  be 

glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of  praise 

be  clad, 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the 

stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to  save  ! 


THE  H  NERAL  TREE  OF  TH1 


-  lonely  I 
There  lingers  not  a  l>r< •«■/••  lo  bf 
The  mirror  which  its  m  ike. 

The  iolemD  pinea  along  il  - 
fin  which  hang  it 
painted  on 

Tli<*  sun  lookfl  "*«r,  u  w\\  ha/y  I 

The  mowy  inouiitaurtopi  which 

P  ■  the  sky. 

*  r  jinal   iahabtmatl 

of  the  coaatry  ljwg  between  Agamenticus  and  l  lulled 

in  a  Bkirmish  :it  Windham,  on  tfw  s  \;\^<>  lake,  in  tl 

limed  all  die  lands  on  l.oili  si. l.-s  of  the    PmODfOOOl    r. 

its  iimutli  .1!  CtJOO,  a^  his  own.      II<'  w;\s  »hp 

•  the  white  in.-n  liad  retired,  the  bui 
beat  down  ■  yoeng  tree  natal  n^  r<>..ts  were  turned  up.  placed  th»* 
body  of  their  duel  beneath  them,  and  then  releaeed  the  tree  u<  ipring 

hack  lr»  its  farmer  poeitioa. 


24        FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 

Dazzling  and  white  !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak  ; 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried  — 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side  : 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS.        25 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  ■  swell  of  land 
.Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

I       and  the  aze  have  -wept  it  h 
:i,  unclosing  t: 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  st<  rnly  m 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at 

and  tu  iati 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  as 
The  firm  — 

rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  aid, 

In  tasselled  Lr;n-!i  of  skins  arrs 

And  girded  with  bis  wampum-braid. 

T  i  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 

Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  n  bich  pi 

Upon  Ins  scarred  and  naked  bra 

'T  is  done  :    the  roots  are  backward  • 
Tin.'  beechen  tree  stands  up  unbent  — 

The  Indian's  fitting  monument  ! 


1  The  Sokokifl  were  early  coarerte  to  t!i-'  Catholic  faith, 
then,  poor  to  tli*-  yeai  1  ? 5 o ,  had  remoYed  i<>  the  French  lettkmanti 

OB   thfl    St.    FlUIienls. 


26         FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace ; 

O  !  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head  — 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 
In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  under-tone  shall  make  ! 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild  flowers  blow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed  — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed  ? 


FUNERAL    TREE    OF    TH  ."IS.  SW 

What  though  the  re, 

And  thoughts  of  wailing 

And  curling  in  the  place  oj 

.on  hath  I  mil 

The  Indian's  low  ind  — 

And  they  have  made  il  uncL 

Tli-  |   all 

His  j)o\- 1  fall 

Unheeded  on  thai  great)  palL 

( >.  peeled,  and  hunted,  and  rei  [led  ! 

!i,  dark  tenanl  •  Id  ! 

•  .Nature  owna  her  iimj 

And  Nature's  <  Sod,  lo  wh 

Tli-  •  i<  known  — 

"I'll-    hidden    lan;_  a  : 

Who,  from  its  mai 
form  and  creed,  an 

To  lighl  ih<'  naked  Bpii  I 

v»t  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan — 
Not  with  our  pride  and  acorn  Bheil  han 

The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 

»  The  brutal  ami  unchristian  spirit  of  the  early  settlers  oi   N 
Rngland  toward  the  red  man  is  strikingly  illustrated  in  the  conduct 

of  the  man  who  shot  down  the   Sokokis  ch  y  he 

always  noticed  the  anniversary  of  that  exploit,  as  ••  the  day  on  which 

the  dewl  a  j.r<  sent."' —  WlLLl  /.  1/ 


ST.    JOHN 


The  fierce  rivalship  of  the  two  French  officers,  left  by  the 
death  of  Razilla  in  the  possession  of  Acadia,  or  Nova  Scotia, 
forms  one  of  the  most  romantic  passages  in  the  history  of  the  New 
World.  Charles  St.  Estienne,  inheriting  from  his  father  the 
title  of  Lord  De  la  Tour,  whose  seat  was  at  the  mouth  of  the  St. 
John's  river,  was  a  Protestant ;  De  Aulney  Charnisy,  whose  fort- 
ress was  at  the  mouth  of  the  Penobscot,  or  ancient  Pentagoet,  was  a 
Catholic.  The  incentives  of  a  false  religious  feeling,  sectarian  intol- 
erance, and  personal  interest  and  ambition,  conspired  to  render  their 
feud  bloody  and  unsparing.  The  Catholic  was  urged  on  by  the  Je- 
suits, who  had  found  protection  from  Puritan  gallows-ropes  under  his 
jurisdiction ;  the  Huguenot  still  smarted  under  the  recollection  of 
his  wrongs  and  persecutions  in  France.  Both  claimed  to  be  cham- 
pions of  that  cross  from  which  went  upward  the  holy  petition  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace  :  " Father,  forgive  them."  La  Tour  received  aid  in 
several  instances  from  the  Puritan  colonies  of  Massachusetts.  Dur- 
ing one  of  his  voyages  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  arms  and  provi- 
sions for  his  establishment  at  St.  John,  his  castle  was  attacked  by 
De  Aulney,  and  successfully  defended  by  its  high-spirited  mistress. 
A  second  attack,  however,  followed  in  the  4th  mo.  1647.  Lady  La 
Tour  defended  her  castle  with  a  desperate  perseverance.  After  a 
furious  cannonade,  De  Aulney  stormed  the  walls,  and  put  the  entire 
garrison  to  the  sword.  Lady  La  Tour  languished  a  few  days  only 
in  the  hands  of  her  inveterate  enemy,  and  died  of  grief,  greatly  re- 
gretted by  the  colonists  of  Boston,  to  whom,  as  a  devoted  Protestant, 
she  was  well  known. 


"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  ! 
Bear  homeward  again  !  " 


ST.    JOHN.  29 


Cried  the  lord  of  Acadia, 
B     ( iharief  of  Eatieni 

From  the  p    m  dlop 

I  [e  gazed,  m  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  die  ocean, 
i  up  the  St.  John. 

ie  blue  p 

That  shallop  bad  paaa 
Where  the  m 

Clung  damp  on  her  m 
Bt  BaTiour"  had  look'd 

<  I  i  the  heretic  sail, 
A    the  ^mi^  of  th<    II,,'  not 

B 

The  pale,  ghostly  fath< 

Remembered  ber  well, 
And  bad  cursed  her  whfle  pa 

\\  ith  taper  and  bell, 
Bui  the  men  of  Monheg 

(  H  Papists  abhon '   . 
Had  welcomed  and  feat 

The  heretic  lord. 


■  The  settlement  of  I  1  the  island  of  Mount  Desert  was 

Coiled  St.  Saviour. 

b  The  isle  of  Honhegu  was  one  of  the  first  settl  d  on 
Maine. 


30  ST.    JOHN. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders. 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
O  !  well  sped  La  Tour  ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane  trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 
St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 


ST.    JOHN.  31 


On  fire-wasted  awelu 
And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o1 
There  floated  do  banner, 
There  thunder**1  no  gun  ! 

But,  beneath  the  lew  arch 

Of  i 
A  pale  priest 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 

With  the  hound  of  *  lion, 
La  1      r  sprang  te  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

I  I      :       •  aed  ins  hand. 

11  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman, 

(  »f  BCarlet  and  sin  ! 

What  irolf  has  been  prow  ling 

M\ 
Prom  the  grasp  ot  ^er 

The  Jesuit  l». 
Half  in  ICOrn,  half  in  sorrow. 
He  smiled  as  lu-  spoke  : 

14  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 
I  I    -  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 
With  tiro,  steel,  and  hall  ! 


32  ST.    JOHN. 

On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hither  ward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

"  Half- veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  wo  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  wo  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 
In  the  path  of  the  ball, 

Pentagoet  swept  over 
The  breach  of  the  wall  ! 

Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 
One  moment  —  and  then 


st.  joh.v 

Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  1 

"  Of  its  sturdy  di 

Thy  lady   alone 

Saw  the  cross  and  the 
Floal  orer  St  John.91 
M  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it  !  M 

. 
M  Were  D'Aulney  Km. 
I  M  free  bei  agai 

M  Alas,  for  thy  lady  ! 
\ 
N  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  • 
Nine  da]   .  oce, 

I  [ei  thraldom  the  ' 

B  it  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  d f  !  " 

Afl  if  suddenly  smitten 

La    I  _'jer'd  hack  ; 

His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

I I  -  tori  head  grew  black. 
I  I<   iprang  on  the  deck 

is  shallop  again  : 
M  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 
Give  way  ! M  cried  Bstienne. 

3 


34  ST.    JOHN. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creek-side 

Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 

O  !  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on  ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


M  [8C  i:  LLA  \  E0U8 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  TIN:  BO  »K  OF  A  FRIEND. 


( ).\  page  of  thine  I  cannot  tr 
The  cold  and  hear  imon*plaoe — 

ted  and  marbii 

For  ever  aa  th<  m  lin<  i  are  i  ■■  ai 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee,  will  blend 

Thai  mmon  friend, 

Who.  in  I  rt  track  baa  m 

pilgrim  tent  a  ith  mine,  or  laid 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  m< 

In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves  — 

The  q<  which  friendship 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  girl 

For  simple  air  and  rati 

And  sign  of  haste  and  ear*  — 


38       LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    BOOK    OF    A    FRIEND. 

Oh  !  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment,  or  studied  wit 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  fear  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  Fashion's  sphere  — 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 

Forbid,  disowned,  —  what  do  they  here  ?  — 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain  — 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 

And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 

Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 

When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them  go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  in  the  "  temples  of  the  Lord  " 
Thrust  out  apart  like  things  abhorr'd. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  Wrong. 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek ; 


LI>ES    WBITTBlf    IN    THE    BOOK    OF    A    FRIEND. 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  bi 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet 

To  brave  <  >pinii 

From  ermined  robe  and 

ig  hoary   I ! 

F  v, 

I  .  ard  lay, 

I 

And,  broad  and  bri|  icr  hand 

ml, 
With  II"  1 ; 

Wh'  '  nr, 

\        i  mi  the  ear  *  ill  grow, 

And 

T  art  and  brain 

Smih  dng  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain  !  —  dot  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  j 

Remain  for  him  who  round  him  d 

The  battered  mail 

From  youthful  hopes  —  from  each  green 
Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  thought, 

Wh<  and  tumult  enter  not. 


40       LINES   WRITTEN   IN    THE   BOOK   OF   A   FRIEND, 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng, 

With  soul  and  strength,  with  heart  and  hand, 
I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band  — 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn  — 
Her  gifts  reclaimed  —  her  smiles  withdrawn. 

What  matters  it !  —  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore  ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 

The  shadows  which  we  follow  here  — 

The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmosphere  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  "  better  land  ; " 

Alone  in  that  pure  Love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  "  seek  and  save." 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  Past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true  ; 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    BOOK    OF    A    FRIEND.       41 

If  through  the  wreck  of 

rlands  wreathed  from  Folly's  bov. 
Of  idle  aims  and  miaspenl  b 

i        ye  can  note  ob 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not  — 

A  in  the  waste  of  thought, 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  r<  ndered  l< 

ium  of  human  a  retchedm 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bl<  as — 

The  simple  burst  of  ten 
From  sad  hi  arts  worn  bj 

ng  on  the  hand  of  healing,  — 

! '       r  than  <  Hory's  pom]  . 

That  green  and  blessed  — 

A  landmark  in  £  I  — 

Something  of  Time  which  may  in 
The  purified  and  spiritual  -  i  _r  1 1 1 
To  rest  "ii  \\  uh  a  calm  delight 

And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  swi 
With  their  linht  wings  my  pi 
And  mosses  round  my  head- 

I.  as  Freedom's  rally: 

Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine, 


42       LINES   WRITTEN    IN    THE    BOOK    OF   A   FRIEND. 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfill, 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern, 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn, — 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering  — 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst  the  green  buds  of  Youth's  fresh  May, 
With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human  kind  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  : 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride  ; 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  : 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  Life's  bitter  cup  at  first. 


LINES    WRITTEN    IN    THE    BOOK    OF    A    FRIEND.       43 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireleas  bearth — and  crowded  n 

And  the  dark  allej  .  — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  *'. 
In  unite  beseeching  agony) 
Thou  lend'sl  thy  w< 

mainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine 
When    Love,  and  Mirth,  and  Friendship  tn 
Their  vai  ,  1        r  mine. 


LUCY    HOOPER.a 


They  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead  — 

That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cherished, 
Has  with  thy  summer  roses  perished ; 

And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 

An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead  — 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Where  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain ; 
The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart  —  that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 

Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true  and  good  ; 

And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  the  best. 
Of  them  —  of  thee  remains  there  nought 

But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast  ?  — 
A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought  ? 

a  Died  in  Brooklyn,  L.  L,  on  the  1st  of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  24  years. 


I    HOOPER.  45 

No!  —  Kvi'ii  jinj  weak  and  trembling  faith 
Can  lilt  lor  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 
And  human  fear  have  drawn  al 

The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

I '.  I  : 

And.  save  the  absence  of  all  ill, 

And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 

Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  I 

I  u  ben,  two  summers  back, 

I I  ir  childhoi        Mi  rrimack, 
I       i  thy  dark  eye  wander  i 

in,  sunny  upland,  rocky  six 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  roice  alone 
'.Midst  lapse  ol  ,  and  the  tone 

Of  pine  leav<  a  by  the  west-wind  blown. 
There's  ooi  a  charm  of  soul  <>r  brow  — 

Of  all  we  know  and  loved  in  thee  — 
But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

B  iptized  in  immortality  ! 
Not  mine  tb<-  sail  and  freezing  dream 

miuIs  that,  with  their  earthly  mould, 

1      ■  off  the  loves  and  Id  — 

Unbodied  —  like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  i  -•■•  .  ai  passionless,  and  cold ; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

( >i'  Blumbering  in  oblivion1 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one  — 

In  blank  annihilation  b 


46  LUCY    HOOPER. 

Dust-atoms,  of  the  Infinite  — 

Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 

And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain, 

Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 

No  !  —  I  have  friends  in  Spirit  Land  — 

Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came  ; 
Their  change  —  the  holy  morn-light  breaking 
Upon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking  — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They  've  laid  thee  'midst  the  household  graves, 
Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie  ; 

Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 
Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 

Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 

Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 

And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her  prayer, 

The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 

That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 

Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 

Undoubted,  to  thy  bosom  taken 

As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 

Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 

The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal ; 

And  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 

How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 


I    HOOPER.  17 

And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 

'ii, 
And  kindled  up,  inl  I  warm, 

A  lift  in  I  form, 

As,  when  on  Chebar'i  banki  of  old, 
The  Hebtf  >n  rolled, 

pirit  filled  the  vast  machuM — 
A  life  M  n  ithin  the  * 

we\\  !   A  little  time,  and  we 
Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee  h-rc, 

one  shall  follow  tl 
A  -  pilgrims  through  I  ur, 

Which  opens  on  eternity, 
tall  we  cherish  not  tin- 
All  that  is  left  our  h< 
The  memory  of  thy  lovelim 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  Bm 

Like  in light  when  the  sun  basset  — 

A  Bweet  ami  tender  radianoi 

Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  -  duty, 

Th.  is  scorn  of  all  thm.  — 

The  truth,  tin-  strength,  the  graceful  beauty 

Which  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee; 
These   green  hills,  where  thy  childhood  roved  — 

Yon  riveT  winding  to  the  sea  — 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  i 


48  LUCY    HOOPER. 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods, — 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  all  thou  loved'st  of  earth  and  sky, 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 


POLLEN. 

OH    HADING   BII  :  VTE.' 


Friend  of  my  soul  !  —  m  with  i 
I  look  up  from  ili 

a  dream  thai  thou  art  nigh, 
Thy  mild  fa- 
Thai  presence  seems  before  me  now, 

A     [acid  hea \ 
When,  dew-like,  on  the  «  arth  '>■ 
;enda  the  quiet  of  the  i 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lipa  which  knew  do  guile, 

oing  the  blue  eye'a  thoughtful  ca 
Wiih  the  bland  beauty  of  then-  smile. 

Ah  me  !  —  at  timea  thai  last  dread  scene 
( >f  Pros!  and  Fire  and  moaning  S 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith,  and  thee. 

l 


50  FOLLEN. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earth, 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth, 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil, 
The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 

To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ! 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 

Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 

The  mind  whose  kingly  will  they  wrought  ? 
Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 

Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

Thou  livest,  Follen  !  —  not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 

The  burden  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 

And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering  worn. 


FOLLEN.  51 

Oh  !  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  glooms 

Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall  — 
Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 

Silent  the  heaven  whieh  bends  o'er  all  !  — 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ours  glide 

In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 
To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 
The  living  from  the  dread  I  oknown  ; 

While  even  on  the  i 

And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 
The  seals  of  thai  stern  i 

Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ;  — 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 

I     mournful  doubts  and  bauntu 
Two  pale,  ,  1  lope  and  Faith, 

Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears  ;  — 


1  T    something  to  a  heart  like  mine 

T<>  think  of  thee  as  Living 
To  fi  el  thai  such  a  light  as  thine 
I      lid  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 


I .      dreary  seems  the  untried  way 
Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  there, 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 


52  FOLLEN. 

Oh  !  —  at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky- 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 
Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm  boughs  wet  with  rain 
The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 

With  clover  bloom  and  yellow  grain 

And  wood- draped  hill  and  stream  between  ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven's  serener  skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

Th'  ideal  of  the  Pure  and  True 
In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 

And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 
And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may  twine  ; 

And  simple  draughts  from  childhood's  well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 


POLLS*.  53 

But  be  the  prying  vision  veiled, 
And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb, — 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hasl  Lr<«ne, 

And  that  the  Bame  returnl 
Which  bore  thee  from  us,  still  Lr 

And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookesl  we  shall  look, 
Ami  to  our  -_ra/«'  ere  1  <  >  1 1  -_r  shall  turn 

That  page  of  <  rod's  mysterious  I 

\V<;  so  much  wish,  yet  dread  to  learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  pow<  r 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee, — 

Who,  in  the  silenl  greeting  oow<    . 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  .  — 

We  leave  thee,  w  ith  a  trust 

Which  Time,  nor  Change,  UOI  I  ><ath  can  : 
While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean 

On  Him  wh<  st  name  is  Love  ! 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE. 


How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover  ! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 

Lovely  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft,  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 


TO    A    FRIEND.  ~>b 

W  the  long  hollow  dell 
T     ched  by  the  pr  pell 

Into  an  ocean  swell 
Will, 

Cliffs  wrapt  in  raon  rs, 

Splint 

A  itumn's  blue  heaven  : 
rock  anil  frozen  - 
Hung  <»n  ih»-  1:1 

ag  their  hour  I 

]  lownwa  i-driven  ! 

Rhine  stream,  by  castle  old 
i*^  and  ro 

illy  uowin 
ping  through  ■ 

( )r  ■  hep'  the  clni's  an-  seen 
( Per  tin-  h; 

( trim  shadoa 

( »r.  i  ben    S 

ne 
\    it,  dim,  an<l  solemn,  — 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low — 

Censers  swung  to  and  t*r<>  — 

■  m 
Cornice'  and  column  ! 


56  TO   A    FRIEND. 

Oh,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  ever  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt  — 
New  voices  softly  chant  — 

New  faces  greet  thee  !  — 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line 
At  memory's  magic  sign 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 


TO    A    FRIEND. 

Y  \iins  lie 

Piled  in  the  iky 

Be  the  wild  pictun 

In  ti, 
And,  thn 
Him,  who, 
\ 

All  its  lhir  forms  Bunrii    . 

_ 


RAPHAEL.4 


I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  sight : 

The  glow  of  Autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 

The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy  ; 
Yet  while  I  gazed  a  sense  of  awe 

Seemed  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  simple  print :  — the  graceful  flow 

Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 
And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 

Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 

I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine  ; 
It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 

The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

a  Suggested  by  a  portrait  of  Raphael  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  in  the 
possession  of  Thomas  Tracy,  of  Newburyport. 


RAPHAEL. 

As  if,  as  Gothland'i  nge  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

.■•red  from  itf  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  c\ 

Win  it  the  lifting  of  thai 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  ? 

L  id-wreath  on  the  iky, 

I  nt  the  walls  expand. 

The  narrow  room  had  vanished,  —  q 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 
Through  which  all  hues  and  f  grace 

And  beauty  looked  OF  ihone. 

Around  the  mij  ime 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  : 

( )h  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 
Enfolding  in  one  dear  embr 

Thy  Sai  bur  and  thy  Child  ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John  ; 
The  awful  glory  of  that  day 

When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 


60  RAPHAEL. 

And,  midst  grey  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard  and  sage, 

Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colours  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 


RAPHAEL.  Gl 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 
The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And  painted  on  rnal  wall 

Th  ar. 

Think  yo  the  ootes  of  b 

On  Milt  fill  car  h;r. 

Think  ye  thai  Rapfa  !  throng 

I  i  is  vanished  from  b 

Oh  do  !  —  v 

( »r  warmly  toucbi  d  or  coldly  dim 
Th'-  pictures  of  the  Past  remain, — 

.Man*-  works  shall  follow  him  ! 


I 


DEMOCRACY. 


All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye 
even  so  to  them.  — Matthew  vii.  12. 


Oh,  fairest  born  of  Love  and  Light, 
Yet  bending  brow  and  eye  severe 

On  all  which  pains  the  holy  sight 
Or  wounds  the  pure  and  perfect  ear ! 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown  ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred  —  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those  whose  hearts  thy  truth  deride  ; 

And  garlands,  plucked  from  thee,  are  wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

Oh,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy  peaceful  courts  with  blood  ! 


DEMOCRACY.  63 

Still  to  (bom  tepa  turn, 

For  through  th<    I  ch  darken  there, 

the  flan*  iom  burn  — 

The  Kcbla  of  the  patriot's  pru; 

The  gener  ire  and  warm, 

Which  owns  the  <dl  divine  — 

The  pitying  heart  —  the  helping  arm  — 
The  prompt 

!  th  thy  broad,  impartial  • 

te  the  lii,  '    and  \>\. 

equal  in  their  Buffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitui  rth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  bath  nurtured  1 
A  d  to  heal  I 

The  worshipper  m. 

y  unrepealed,  unawed 
pomp  or  power,  tl 

In  prii,  i  or  lord  — 

Pa!-  r  swarthy  artisan. 

Through  all  disi  to,  place  or  name, 

.rath  the  Haunting  I 

Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 

Thou  lookest  on  U  ;lhn. 


64  DEMOCKACY. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set  — 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  cold  and  shallow  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art, 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  mount 

Thrilled,  warmed,  by  turns  the  listener's  heart. 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In  thoughts  which  angels  leaned  to  know, 

Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high  — 
Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  wo. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain  side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 

I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 
And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 

Thy  banded  Party  worshippers. 


DEMOCRA  G5 


Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 
At  Party's  ceil,  my  gifl  I  bl 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine-  I  lay 

A  freeman's  dearest  offei 
The  fi  itterance  of  bis  s  ill  — 

Hi-  pli  i  dotn  and  t<i  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembera  still 
The  homage  of  il  ith. 


LINES 


WRITTEN    ON    READING    SEVERAL    PAMPHLETS    PUBLISHED    BY    CLER- 
GYMEN   AGAINST    THE    ABOLITION    OF    THE    GALLOWS. 


I. 

The  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 

Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,  and  made 

The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And  mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for  his  head  ; 

And  He,  who  wandei'ed  with  the  peasant  Jew, 
And  broke  with  publicans  the  bread  of  shame, 
And  drank,  with  blessings  in  His  Father's  name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 

Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore, 

Altar  and  shrine  and  priest,  —  and  incense  dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and  hymn, 

From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble  floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  Cross  He  bore  ! 

ii. 
Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 


LINES. 


67 


And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  Him  not, 
How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  understood  ! 
When  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  p 

At  Mis  own  altar  hinds  the  chain  an 

Where  he  hath  bidd< 

The  Starving  many  wait  UDOTJ  tiie  few  : 

Where  II<-  hath  spoken  Peace,  II  -  aame  hath  I 

ir-cry  of  contendi 

. 

The  unsheathed  •word,  and  laid  the  spear  in  n 

th<-  war-banner  \\  ith  uV 
And  crosaed  its  blazon  with  the  b 

1 1  -  oame  n  ho  bade  the  erring 
And  daily  taughl  II  -  lesson —  I  '  — 

Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  mur 
And,  with  !  1  :  mercy  on  their  1     . 

I  luiiL  r's  hum 

And  the  grim  horror  of  th< 
Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  victim's  limb, 
Who  saw  before  his  sear  bh  im 

The  image  of  their  Christ,  in  cruel  i 
Through  tiie  black  tomunt-sinoke,  held   mocking 
him  ! 

in. 
Th''  blood  which  mingled  with  uY  -  md, 

And  headed  with  its  red  and  gh  . 

The  vines  ami  olives  of  the  Holy  Land  — 
The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew  — 


DO  LINES. 

The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 
They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear  — 
Goa's  dark  dungeons  —  Malta's  sea-washed  cell, 

Where  with  the  hymns  the  ghostly  fathers  sung 

Mingled  the  groans  by  subtle  torture  wrung, 
Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek  of  Hell ! 
The  midnight  of  Bartholomew  —  the  stake 

Of  Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed  flame 
Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake  — 
New  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly  sneer 
Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of  fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might  claim, — 
Bear  witness,  O  Thou  wronged  and  merciful  One  ! 
That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in  Thy  name 
been  done  ! 

IV. 

Thank  God  !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the  time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to  find 
An  utterance  from  the  deep  heart  of  mankind, 
Earnest  and  clear,  that  all  Revenge  is  Crime  ! 
That  Man  is  holier  than  a  creed,  —  that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 

And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 
The  beautiful  lesson  which  our  Saviour  taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath  wrought 
Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 


LINES. 

found  an  ech<  eneral  h- 

And  of  the  public  I  B  living  part. 

v. 
Who  shall  arrest  this  tendenc 
The  <■•  lis  of  \  <  nice  and  the  l>i<_r<  t1 
Harden  the  softening  human  hea 
'I     cold  indiffl  a  brother1 

Se  most  unhappy  men  !  —  \vli<>.  turned  an 
Prom  the  mild  sunshine  of  uV   I  ! 

Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight  I 
Wha1  mean  ye,  thai  with  ghoul-like  zesl  ye  br 

•a  ith  warm  M< 
'  in  anothi  l  clime  .; 

Why  cite  that  law  with  which  tl  w 

B    iuked  the  pagan's  mercy,  when  be  kir 

■  vil  in  the  Jusl  (  hue  .:  —  Wh<  irn 

To  the  dark  cruel  past  .;  —  <  Ian  am 

Prom  the  pure  Teacher's  life,  how  mildlj  I 
Is  the  [  pel  of  I  luma 

The  Plamen's  knife  is  bl Hess,  and  i 

Mexitl  soak  with  human  . 

No  more  the  ghastly  sacrific<  b  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  I  ak  ; 

And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiesl  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  .; 
■  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land. 
And,  consecrators  of  Law's  darkesl  crime, 

Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  Hangman's  hand  ? 


70  LINES. 

Beware  — lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  incumbrance  cast, 

And,  sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for  blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims  round 
The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 

Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven  —  a  pagan  brother- 
hood ! 


THE   HUMAN   SACRIFICE. 


i. 

Far  from 

1;  in, 

Blown  clover  field  an  ell, 

And  green  and  meadow  freahneae,  fell 

The  '  of  Ins  ilrcam. 

Again  from  the  dew 

Of  slum:  y  morn  1  •■ 

Again  with  merry  bean  be  Inn 

1 1  -  light  line  in  the  ripplinj 
Back  cr >n  ded  a  j  — 

1 1      . .  i  d  the  ball  and  on, 

•  [ 
ter  of  ;i  clergymen,  giving  in  ejecount  of  Ins  ettendei 

nal.  (who  hail  OOmmitted  murder  daring  a  tit  of  intoxication,)  at  the 

time  ui  ln>  em  1 1 1 1 ■ ' 1 1 .  in  w  eeten  Ne*  ,t  ork.    TWi  vrib 
the  egonj  t»t"  th-'  wreti  bi  d  being     lu>  el  ortire  elU  mpte  el  j>r:i 

his  appeal  tor    lii  IT  of  a   violent  death;  and.  after   &V 

Jul:   his  belief  thai    the   poor  victim  died  without   !.  . . i t i » . 1 1 . 

concludes  with  a  warm  culn'jy  upon  lb     I  I  than 

erei  convinced  oi  its  utility  bj  the  awful  dread  and  horror  which  it 
inspired. 


72  THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE. 

And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 
Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 
Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

Its  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay  ; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  Home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knee  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer  ! 

ii. 
He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again  — 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain  ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  last  hour  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron-barred, 
The  Gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him,  — 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air  — 

A  blackness  in  His  morning  light  — 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 


THE    HUMAN    SACK.  78 

And,  maddened  by  th  ght, 

Dark,  horrible,  confused,  an" 

A  chaos  of  wild  Weltering  chair.    . 

All  power  <>t*  check  and 

Dizzy  aii'l  blind,  h 

In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  b  pn 
In  vain  he  turned  the  holy    I 

ily  heard  the  I 
lk  as  the  wind 

[ream  for  him  of  •  a, 

\\  rule  -'ill  that  baleful 
With  its  hoarse  murm 

'  I  D  him  and  t!,.  I  [i   i\.  n  ! 


III. 
Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  be  kn<    • 

Ami  -in-' 

Whose  iron  clasp  Ik 
II     hot 

And  pear  him,  u  ith  tli<  <k 

And  tone  «'f  one  a  hose  formal 
Unwarmed,  unsoftew  d  of  the  ! 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  : 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
Th<-  I  [angman1  d, 

B    gsing  with  solemn  texl  and  word 
Th<-  Gallows-drop  and  strangling  cordj 
Lending  the  sacred  I  iwe 

Ami  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 


74  THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE. 

IV. 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow  — 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there  — 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen  hideous  through  the  long,  damp  hair  — 
Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  !  — 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 

The  choaking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer ; 
As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  th'  eternal  flame  — 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies  — 
Its  demon-worm  that  never  dies  — 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall  ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  Gallows  stood  : 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  ; 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other,  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening  the  death-rope's  strangling  clasp  ! 

y. 
The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done  — 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said  — 
An  hour  had  passed  :  —  the  noon-day  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 


THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE.  75 

And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  bei 
Calm  ganger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
What  the  keen 

Of  man'i  extren* 

And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnesl  of  the  victim's  I 
The  vengeful  tern  Pa  law, 

The  kindling!  ol   Efc         Elate  — 

The  lii  Bl  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 

Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  Pain, — 
Did  he  uplift  bit 

A  gainst  il"'  crime  of  Law,  wl, 
irother  to  that  fearful  giare, 
Whereon  I  lope's  moonlight  m 

Ami  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  s 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory1  :  — 

Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stain 

By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 

In  madneai  and  in  blindness  stark, 

Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  r 

No — from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread 

With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 
Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  dh 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead. 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hii 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 

New  reasons  for  his  bloody  Law  : 


76  THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE. 

New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 

By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 

New  reverence  for  the  Gallows-rope, 

As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 

Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 

When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 

And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 

By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 

Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 

Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 

And  timely  checked  the  words  which  sprung 

From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 

While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 

The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 

Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 

The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 

Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 

But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  ! 

VI. 

Oh,  Thou  !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whcm  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came, 


THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE.  77 

And  from  thy  very  gUTflMDt'l  bem 
Drew  lift  and  healing  unto  them, 

The  burden  of  Thy  holy  faith 

Was  lore  and  life,  not  hat  ath 

Man's  demon  ministers  of  1 

The  fiends  of  his  : 
From  Thy 

To  their  dark  home  again* 
Thy  nam  ■■ !     What,  tin 

Who  in  that  Dame  the  1 1 

An  aw  fwl  altar  huilt  bo  Tb 
With  Bac  Mood  an 

Oh,  once  again  Thy  healing  lay 

On  the  blind  eyei  which  know  T 
And  let  the  light  of  Thy  pure 

M  It  in  upon  his  darkened  thought 

n  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 

The  power  «  bioh  in  Porbearao 

And  let  him  feel  thai  Here]  d 

tter  than  old  - 

VII. 

As  on  the  White  Sea's*  charmed  Bh< 

The  Pa  -  bis  holy  lull 

*  Amon?  the  Tartars,  the  Ces^naa  is  known  si   '.  that  i», 

White  Sea,    Baku,  «'n  Ui  Penan  tide,  i^  n  marksbu  tor  it;,  pi 
ual  tin-,  scarcely  discoverable  under  tin-  pitch]  ■nake  from 

the  bitumen  which  kids  it.     It   is  the  natural  hre-ultar  of  the  old 

Persian  worship. 


78  THE    HUMAN   SACRIFICE. 

With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still ; 
So  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
Gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
Dim  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
And  o'er  its  wasted  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 
Oh  !  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin-stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  Despair  !  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray  — 

My  brother  man,  Beware  ! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  Forbear  ! 


THE    CYPEESS    TREE    OF    <  T.YLON. 


Ins  Batuta,  ili'1  oelel     I      If  otsalman  traveller  of  the  foorte< 
century,  speaks  ol  t  Cypress  tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  l 
by  tin'  natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall  only  u  certain 
intervals,  end  be  who  bad  the  hap 

■M  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor.   'I  rut  several 

venerable  Jogees,  or  saints,  sitting  silent  and  motii 
tree,  patiently  awaiting  the  (ailing  of  a  I 

Thbt  sal  in  silent  watchful] 

The  sacred  c)  press  tree  about, 
An«l.  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows 

Their  failing  eyes  looked  out 

Gn      '        nd  Sickness  wailing  tin 
Through  weary  nighl  and  lingering  day  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side 
Ann  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  ab 
The  sonj  Ion's  birdi  eel ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flow  i 

Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet 


80         THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill  ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eye-balls  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call  —  the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids  —  the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag,  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf, 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing  : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  Age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh  !  —  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree, 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer 
Upon  the  waiting  head  : 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 
And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But,  on  the  fainting  soul  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  : 


THE    CYPRESS    TREE    OF    CEY  81 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch 

And  murmur  at  uY  lay  r 

[mpatienl  of  o  ir  F  ith< 

And  Hia  app  y  \ 

Allurr-  and  claim  I 
When  00  tin-  beathen  watci 

Their  poweiieei  murn 

A       '  faith 

Than  prison  < - « - 1 1  <»r  m 

Tli< 

may  DM 

v.        rd  ua  hrr. 

irother  in  the  a  rong 
And  in  the  ear  of  P  Power 

r  warning 

! '.  Peter1 

Than  "  o  humbling 

at  things,'1  like  the  &         i  lord 
I  I  D  do  and  • 

.  !  we  shrink  from  Jon 
Prom  waters  which  al<  iwt  : 

And  murmur  for  Abana'a  hanks 
i  Pharpar's  brighter  ware. 

(J 


82         THE  CYPRESS  TREE  OF  CEYLO>\ 

Oh  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  Thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them 
And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 


CHALKLEY    HALL. 


1 1  i 
1 

'  — 

IT  re  while  the  market  murmurs,  while  men  throng 

The  marble  fl 
Of  Mammon1!  titer,  from  the  crab  and  din 
Of  the  world'l  r  in 

My  bl  ttei  thought! 

■  Chalklry  Hall,    near   Frankford,  Pa.  the  residence  of  Thomas 
KLEY.an»:  tfb     denominate.; 

was  one  o!  ml,  which 

was  j  -onts  a  quaint  but  beautiful  picture  of  a 

dneas.     He  was  the  master  of  a 
merchant    vessel,   and.   in  !. 

Britain,  omitted  no  opportun.  -    fhis 

fellow  men.  During  a  temporary  residence  in  Philadelphia,  in  the 
summer  of  1838,  the  quiet  and  beauuful  scenery  around  the  ancient 
Tillage  of  Frankford.  frequently  attracted  me  from  the  heat  and  tustle 
of  the 


84  CHALKLEY    HALL. 

Oh  !  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 
And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  dies  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain !  — 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and  sunset  air 

Old  feelings  waken  ; 
Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and  ill, 
Oh,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 

Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  well  do  time  and  place  befit  my  mood : 

Beneath  the  arms 
Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  the  shade 

Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless  years, 

The  virgin  soil 
Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in  rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and  grain, 

Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 
He  came  to  meet  his  children,  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 

And  praise  for  his  return. 


CHALKLEY    HALL.  85 

And  here  his  i  thered  in  to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 
from  the  wave  and  the  destroyin  a 
b  reap  ontinm 

rex  the  <  ferrib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  nth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 
( )f  weaki  me  far-off  In«i 

From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  bai 

B  .  up  in  life  and  pon  CT  ! 

How  at  those  gath< 

\   ■<  odering  love 

Came  o'er  him,  lik<-  the  gei  n. 

And  \\<»rd>  ot*  fitness  to  his  |i] 
And  strength  as  from  abi i • 

the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

[Jnul  his  chain 
( Jrew  lighter,  and  his  w<  tnd<  d  spirit  felt 
The  healing  halm  of  consolation  melt 

Upon  its  Life-long  pain  : 

How  the  armed  warrior  sate  him  down  to  i. 

(  >!'  Peace  and  Truth, 
And  the  proud  Ruler  and  hia  I 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 


86  CHALKLEY    HALL. 

Oh,  far  away  beneath  New  England's  sky, 

Even  when  a  boy, 
Following  my  plough  by  Merrimack's  green  shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And  hence  this  scene,  in  sunset  glory  warm  — 

Its  woods  around, 
Its  still  stream  winding  on  in  light  and  shade, 
Its  soft,  green  meadows  and  its  upland  glade  — 

To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius  keeps 

His  vigils  still ; 
Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is  laid, 
Or  Vaucluse  hallowed  by  its  Petrarch's  shade, 

Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  grey  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 
Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange  grove 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and  Love 

Like  sister  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 
And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and  meadow-stream  have  shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven  ! 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND/ 


.  brothers  !  —  In  the  fight 

^  •   '  :  ul, 

For  better  is  j  right 

Than  kingcraft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  Ian ,  or  bigot's  ban 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  vrord; 

The  free  heart  of an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

( So  —  1-  •  your  bloat  !  Church  r 
Tin*  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well ; 

li  moves  not  with  its  prayer 
The  gab  i  of  1  leaven  or  bell. 

*  It  can  scarcely  i  the  suthot  reiVrs  to  those 

who  an'  Melting  the  rii'iitiii  of  political  •  tain,  by 

peaceful  and  christian  means— the  National  Compl 
Association,  at  the  head  of  which  H 
minffham. 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again  — 
Did  Freedom  die  when  Russel  died  ? 

Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 
From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong ; 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glorious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 

By  every  wind  and  every  tide ; 
The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 

Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are  those  which  Heaven  itself  has  wrought, 

Light,  Truth,  and  Love  ;  —  your  battle-ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 

The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan, 
Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 

Your  steady  faith  in  man. 


TO  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND. 

The  languid  pulse  of  Englan 

And  bounds  beneath  your  words  of  pow< 
Tin;  beating  of  her  million  h< 
a  ith  you  at  this  hour  ! 

Ami  Thou  who,  with  undoubl 

Through  presenl  cloud  and  gathering  storm 
Canst  see  the  Bpan  of  Fn  i  dom'a 

And  Bunshine  soft  and  warm, — 

( )li,  pure  Reformer  !  —  not  in  vi 
Thy  generous  trust  in  human  kind  j 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could 
Thy  peaceful  zeal  ihaJl  fincL 

P        on  !  —  the  triumph  shall  l><-  woo 

(  tf  common  rights  and  equal  la 
The  glorioua  dream  of  1 1  ton, 

Sidne) '  »ld  ( !ause. 

' '       r  and  the  Crown, 
ag  worn  Labor*!  b 
And,  plucking  oot  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

i  on  !  —  and  we  who  may  oot  bo 
The  toil  or  glory  of  3  our  fight, 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  pray<  r, 
I  icd'a  Messing  on  the  Right  ! 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   VIRGINIA.4 


The  blast  from  Freedom's  northern  hills,  upon  its 
Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia,  from  Massachusetts  Bay  :  — 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle-bugle's 
peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  nor  clang  of  horse- 
men's steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along  our  high- 
ways go  — 

Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies  the   snow  ; 

And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon  their  er- 
rands far, 

A  thousand  sails  of  Commerce  swell,  but  none  are 
spread  for  War. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy  words  and 
high, 

a  Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  the  citizens 
of  Norfolk  (Va.)  in  reference  to  George  Latimer,  the  alleged  fugi- 
tive slave,  the  result  of  whose  case  in  Massachusetts  will  probably 
be  similar  to  that  of  the  negro  Somerset  in  England,  in  1772. 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA.  91 

Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which  melt  along 
our  sky  : 

Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  ts  honest  la- 

bor here  ; 

No  hewer  of  our  mountain  te   in 

Wild    are    the   ware*   which    lash    t!  ■ 
:  i  k , 

and 
dank  ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blind 
the  hearts  a  hicfa  man 
The  fiahing-smac  i  I : 

1  \;m. 

Tin-  N   rth  light,  and  a 

for 

the  storms  ; 
I        as  the  winds  they  drivt 

tin  y  roam, 
They  laugh  to  scorn  the  Blaver'a  th  their 

.y  home. 

What  means  the  old  Dominion  ;     I  la:  h  -  the 

day 

roquered  valleys  swept  the  Bri 
array  : 


92  MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA. 

How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of  hers,  the  Massachusetts 

men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and  stout  Corn- 

wallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer  to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out  from  Fan- 

euil  Hall  ? 
When,  echoing  back  her  Henry's  cry,  came  pulsing  on 

each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds,  the  thrilling  sounds  of  '  Liberty 

or  Death ! ' 

What  asks  the  Old  Dominion  ?     If  now  her  sons  have 

proved 
False  to  their  father's  memory  —  false  to  the  faith  they 

loved  ; 
If  she   can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  Great  Charter 

spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  Truth  and  Duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Slavery's  hateful 

hell  — 
Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the  bloodhounds' 

yell- 
We    gather,   at    your   summons,    above    our    fathers' 

graves, 
From  Freedom's  holy  altar  horns  to  tear  your  wretched 

slaves  ! 


: TS    TO    VIRGINIA.  93 

Thank   God  !    not  vilely   can    M 

bow, 
spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even  now  ; 
Dream  not  because  her  pilgrim  blood  a*  .  and 

calm,  and  cool, 
thus  can  stoop  her  chainleM  neck,  a 

and  tool  ! 

All    that  a  si  ■  [d  do,  all    thai 

DM    . 

I  [eart,  hand,  and  purse  we 

But    that  on»-  dark    loathsOUM 

with  alone, 
And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  yourselves  have 

-oWll  ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  -lav.  s,  and  burden 

( Sod'i 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and  manh< 

wild  despair  : 
Cling  closer  to  the  '  that  wr 

your  j  > ' .- 1  i  1 1  < , 
The   blasting   of  Aim  ith  against   a   Ian 

cha 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancesfv,  \}\. 
By  watching  round   the  shamHrs  where   hum;.:, 
sold  — 


94  MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA. 

Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count  his  market 

value,  when 
The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall  pierce  the 

slaver's  den  ! 

Lower    than   plummet   soundeth,   sink   the   Virginian 

name  ; 
Plant,  if  ye   will,  your   fathers'    graves  with    rankest 

weeds  of  shame  ; 
Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  universe  — 
We  wash  our  hands  forever,  of  your  sin,  and  shame, 

and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from  Freedom's 

shrine  hath  been, 
Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of  Berkshire's 

mountain  men  : 
The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly  lingering 

still 
In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind-swept  hill. 

And  when  the  prowling  man-thief  came  hunting  for 

his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft  of  grey, 
How,  through  the   free   lips  of  the  son,  the   father's 

warning  spoke  ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the  Pilgrim  city 

broke  ! 


MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRCIN:  95 

A  hundred  thousand  r i L_r ! 1 1  arms  were  lined  up  on  high, 
A    hundred    thousand    roi<  hack    their   loud 

y ; 

Through  the  thronged   ton  Ming 

And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  \vl,  me- 

dia 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middl 

of  one  — 
The  shaft  of  Bunk<  L  »n  — 

N 

•  ind 

To  where  Nantucli 

round  ; 

From    rich   and    rural    \  through    the 

calm  rep 

Ofcultup  ud  fringing  woods  the  gi    •     N  -hua 

flow  I, 
To   where   Wochusett'a   wintry   blasts  the    n 

larches  stir, 

Swelled    up  to  heaven    the   thrilling   cry  I 
Latimer  !  ' 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rosu  up,  wet  with  the  salt  sea 

spray  — 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down  Narragan- 

sett  Bay  I 


96  MASSACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA. 

Along  the  broad  Connecticut   old   Hampden   felt  the 

thrill, 
And   the  cheer  of  Hampshire's  woodmen  swept  down 

from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !      Of  her  free  sons  and 

daughters  — 
Deep   calling   unto  deep   aloud  —  the  sound  of  many 

waters  ! 
Against  the   burden  of  that  voice  what  tyrant  power 

shall  stand  ? 
No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  !    No  slave  upon  her  land  ! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !   In  calmness  we  have  borne, 

In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult  and  your 
scorn  ; 

You  've  spurned  our  kindest  counsels  —  you've  hunted 
for  our  lives  — 

And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes  your  mana- 
cles and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war  —  we  lift  no  arm  —  we  fling  no  torch 

within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath  your  soil 

of  sin  ; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen  —  to  wrestle  while  ye 

can, 
With  the  strong  upward  tendencies  and  God-like  soul 

of  man  ! 


-SACHUSETTS    TO    VIRGINIA.  97 

But  for  us  and  fur  our  children,  the  vow  which  we  have 

.  en 
For  Freedom  and  humanity,  a  : 

No  slave-hunt  in  o  —  M  ptTtffC  on  OW  strand  ! 

No  fetters  in  the  Buy  State  —  no  slate  upon  uur  Land  ' 


LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT. 


"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets." — Holy  Writ. 

Yes  —  pile  the  marble  o'er  him  !     It  is  well 

That  ye  who  mocked  him  in  his  long  stern  strife, 
And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 

The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from  hell, 
Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer  when 
He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow  men, 

Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and  sought 
Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 

In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 
The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind, — 

Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 

The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 

For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of  the  brave  heart  beneath,  but  of  the  builders1  shame  ! 


TO 


WITH   A    COPY    OF    WOOLMAN  S    JOURNAL. 


Maiden  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 

Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 
Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 

Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide  — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty  — 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Kindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 
Turning,  with  a  power  like  Midas, 

All  things  into  gold. 

"  Get  the  writings  of  John  Woolman  by  heart. '' —  Essays  of  Eli  a  . 


100  TO  . 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies  ; 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  self-same  sun. 

But,  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things, 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 


TO .  101 

All  the  mystery  ot 

1 1  <•  1 1 }  i  upon  thy  spirit  pre  nod  — 
Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wand< 

Find  do  place  of  n 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondi  r 

That  which  Zeno  beard  with  ;; 
Ami  the  star-*  rapl  Zon  i 

In  bis  night-watch 

Prom  the  douht  and  darkness  springing 

( )f  the  dim,  uncertain  I 

Moving  to  the  dark  still  ahad< 

I  »"■  r  the  Future  c 
Early  hath  Life's  might] 

Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth 
With  a  deep  and  BtTOUg  beseech 

What  and  wbjuu        i      ra  : 

1  Follow  creed  and  <■<  reinonial 
Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  A 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  act 

Dull,  ami  cold,  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meai 

Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 
Not  from  these  thj  spirit 

Hath  its  answer  drawn. 


102  to . 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even 
On  thy  Mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  Peace,  and  Rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rushed  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail  ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves  tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  flow. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters, 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 

Even  as  the  dark  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky,a 
And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 
*  August.  Sililoq.  cap.  xxxi.    "  Interrogavi  Terrain,"  &c. 


to .  103 


But  h 

More  than  outward  Nal 
More  1  it  the  po<  •" 

Or  t;  -  thought. 

Only  in  the  gather* 

( )f  a  calm  and  waiting  frame 
Light  and  wisdom  I 
the  seek<  i 

Not  to  ease  and  ainih  ->  quiet 

I  I     ii  that  inward  answer  tend, 
But  tO  works  of  love  and   <! 

A  'a  end,  — 

to  idle  dreams  and  trair 

I .     gth  of  face,  and  solemn 
But  to  Faith,  in  daily  strii  ing 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  end. 

( H  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin. 

And  w  ithout,  with  * 

dy  heart  and  weapon  strong, 
In  the  power  of  Troth  assailing 

ry  form  of  i  rung. 


104  to . 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  Woolman's  feet ! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages  — 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught :  — 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictures 
Such  as  shines  in  Richter's  lay, 

Shed  its  living  warmth  and  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  way. 

Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal 
Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 

But  a  presence  warm  and  real 
Seen  and  felt  and  known. 

When  the  red  right  hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  memory's  tongue, 


To .  105 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
H  and  that  meek  and  _■  one  — 

Glorious,  like  tl 

nding  in  the  nin  ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  pot 

What  Ltfl  — 

Blessed  aa  the  band  of  beal 

If  it  onl\ 

I  [  -I, 

the  fount  of  In  ing  ■ 
And  diviner  I 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 

I  meek  and  still  reb 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  P( 

From  th  0  I  — 

If  w itb  readier  ear  thou  h<<  i 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

I .        ting  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  may'sl  live  to  h!rss  the  gii 

Who  himself  hut  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 

ek  ; 


106  to . 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 
It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 

Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 
In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


M  J:.M  OKIES. 


A  beat  run.  and  happy  «_ri rl 

With  mii'T  air, 

Ami  i\->-\i  young  lip  and  bron 
Shadowed  by  many  a  i  url 

(  >f  unconfined  and  Sou  iog  bail : 
A     eming  child  in  ever]  thing 

itflll  brOW,  and  rip  nib, 

A    \  ■  .      m  die  of  Spi 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which  melted  through  its  graceful  bowi  r, 
Leaf  aft<  •  aely  bright 

And  stainless  in  its  holy  white 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  (lower: 
A  heart)  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute 

With  every  breath  of  feetii 
Ami,  even  a hen  the  long  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 


108  MEMORIES. 

How  thrills  once  more  the  lengthening  chain 

Of  memory  at  the  thought  of  thee  !  — 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain, 
Old  dreams  come  thronging  back  again. 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me  ; 
I  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine 
As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 

Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !  memories  of  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and  tones  more  dear  than  they  ! 

Ere  this  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee, 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  my  boyhood's  dream. 


MORIES.  109 

Med  on,  and  left  their  trace 
( >i'  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  i 

< )!"  iiruiii i.  and  ' 

roman'a  pensive  beauty  bro 
( )n  I,  ■  >r  blame  or  pi 

The  Bcho  y  flown  ; 

Thine,  in  the  green  ;m<l  qu  i 

mbtrurii  i  b  know  n. 

And  s  ider  yet  in  thought  am]  d<  i 

-till  diverging  paths  incline, 
Thine  the  ( Jen 
While  answers  to  mj  need 

The  Yorkshire  pea  'inc. 

For  thee  the  priestly  rite  and  praj 
And  holy  day  and  solemn  psalm, 

me  the  sileni  reverence  «  Ik 
.My  brethren  \  m  and  i 

Yet  hath  thy  spirit  lefl  on  me 

An  impn  n  Time  h  is  worn  not  out, 

An<l  something  of  myself  in  the-, 

A  shadow  from  the  past,  ! 

Lingering  even  yet  thy  way  shout ; 

Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  leSSOn  i  r  hours, 

N         t  lias  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 
T    common  dust  that  path  ^t'  flov 


110  MEMORIES. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eye 

The  clouds  about  the  present  part, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lie 
Soft  hues  of  Memory's  morning  sky  — 

The  Indian  summer  of  the  heart, 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  1 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY/ 


The  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman9!  room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  hii 

And  heat-  the  maid  with  her  nmmed  hroom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  Hail, 

But  he  sweeps  the  0 '  and  threshes  the  corn, 

And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  ll««l  from  the  sun, 
And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn  I 

The  fiend  ofFausI  \\;i-  a  faithful 
Agrippa's  demoo  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther 

By  the  stoul  Monk's  tide  in  social  chat 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 
Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 

Twined  Closely  each  lean  and  withered   limb, 

Like  the  night-mare  in  one's  sleep. 

But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sinbad 

The  <'vil  weighl  from  his  back  at  last. 

*  From  unpublished  i  Qjutl  Man."' 


112  THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fire-side  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  gray 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 

Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 

Are  chronicled  well  by  good  king  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 

No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 

Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell : 
And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red  nose, 
And  two  grey  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows. 
Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 
Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  fat  old  man  ! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  "  how  d'  ye  do," 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow  chair; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat, 

And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 


THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY.  113 

And  then  he  n  i  paper  and  hook, 

In  ;i  low  and  husk 
With  the  stolid  samem  sa  of  od  look, 

me  w  ho  readi  to  himself  alone  ; 
And  hour  after  hour  on  mj  •  ime 

Thai  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 

The  j  .  the  aucl  i 

The  i_r  and  !h<-  lo\  • 

The  horrible  murd< 

The  marriage  lisl  and  the  rif, 

All  reach  my  ear  in  th<-  self-same  tone, — 
1  shudder  al  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on  ! 

( >h  !  swe<  t  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 

(  Per  the  moss)  roota  of  son 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woo  la  of  J 

( )r  Bound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight 
Or  the  Ion  aofl  urn  mce  u  hich  w  i 

I\»  float  through  th 

So  bv  lear  ia  ih<'  silvery  I 

i  tf  her  in  whose  feal 
As  I  sit  at  eve  !»\  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  l»_\  turns  from  th<  — 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  tin-  olden  li 
Borne  lover'a  romance  or  quaint  old  rh. 
8 


114  THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe, — 

Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon-bar. 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear  !  — 

Oh,  pity  me  then  when,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 
Which  melted  in  music  the  night  before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet ! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I  topple  the  chains,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain ! 


THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY.  115 

I  've  studied  Glanville  and  James  t; 

And  vizard  blac  which  treat 

( )f  demom  of  every  name 

•li  a  ( Christian  man  ia  presumed 
Bat  n«  \<  r  b  hint  and  never  a  I 
Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I  V  r  with  Brady  and  '1 

laid  the  P  them  all, 

I  \>-  nailed  a  nor* 

A  v  parlor  wall 

•  \\<»rn  by  a  |( 

At  Salem  coon  in  tb< 

"  Covjur< 

Abirt  ad  lunm  Jorum  !  " —  still 

Like  a  visible  nightmare  be  Bits  by  me  — 

Th<  its  ^kill  ; 

And  I  I  i  in  my  haunted  room 

The  husky  w beeze  and  th<  -  hum  I 

Ah!  —  commend  me  to  Mary  V 

With  herseven-fold  plagu<  - — to  the  wand< 

To  the  tenors  w  hich  haunt 
The  i'h:  dnight  curtains  drew. 

But  charm  him  <»tl'.  ye  who  charm  him  can, 
That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man  !  — 


THE    RELIC 


Pennsylvania  Hall,  dedicated  to  Free  Discussion,  and  the  cause 
of  human  liberty,  was  destroyed  by  a  mob  in  1833.  The  following 
was  written  on  receiving  a  cane  wrought  from  a  fragment  of  the 
wood  work  which  the  fire  had  spared. 


Token  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere, 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear  — 

Earth's  noblest  aim  —  man's  holiest  thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought ! 


THE    IIUC.  117 

Pure  thoughts  and  sweet,  li]  -   unfold 

And  pn  cio  is  memories  round  it  cling, 

Even  as  the  Prophet1!  rod  of  old 
In  1" 

And  buds  of  f<  eling  pure  and  Lr,««d 

Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood, 

shrine  —  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning]  —  let  it  l>o 

el  from  the  hand 

:.  I  : !  — 

Flower  <»t"  a  perished  garland  left, 
Of  life  and  beauty  unb< 

( )h  !  if  the  young  enth  lts 

< Per  weary  iraste  and  sea  the  si 
Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum1 

( >r  round  tin-  Parthen 

re-bough  from  some  \\  ild  tr 
Hung  over  old  ThermopylsB : 

[f  leaflets  from  some  he: 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary, — 
( hr  faded  Bowers  a  rs  bloom 

( )n  fields  renowned  in  story,  — 
Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra1 
Oi  the  grey  reek  by  Druids  blessed  !  — 


118  THE    RELIC. 

If  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  bur  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn  — 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows !  — 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 

To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned  — 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod, 

Lifting  on  high  with  hands  unstained 
Thanksgiving  unto  God  ; 

Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 

For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding : 

Where  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night  air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 

And,  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance  ! 


THE    RELIC.  119 

That  Temple  now  in   ruin  lies, — 

The  fire-Stain    on  red  wall, 

And  open  to  the  changing  -kies 
•lack  and  rooflen  hall, 
dos  before  a  N  ghl 

buried  Ri 

But  from  thai  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  th<  ms<  lying, 

And  from  their  ash* 

bs  1  are  replj  ii 

A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  -till! 

Ami  even  thifl  relic  from  thy  Bhlilie 

( )h.  ;  m  !  —  hath  to  me 

A  potent  power,  a  voice  and 
To  testify  of  ih- 

Ami  uri-as|MHLT  i'  methinkfl  I  feel 
\  faith,  a  si  .  •  al. 

And  not  unlike  thai  mystic  rod 

( >t  old  Btretched  o'er  the  Egj  ptian  a 
Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  (iud, 
A  pathway  for  the  sla 

It  yet  may  point  the  bondmanfi  Way 
And  turn  the  Bpoilei  lVum  his   prey. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND 
LEGEND." 


How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning ! 
Its  rites  fordone  —  its  guardians  dead  — 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning !  — 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen, 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  church-yard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone  ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone  ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 


EXTRACT.  121 

:]Lr<-r  rioga  with  midnigl  ' 
Of  witch,  <>r  ghost,  or  goblin  « •  \  i  1 ; 
N  .  blue  flame  sends  out  'in  flasl 

Through  cr  i!  — 

i       witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring, 

the  night* 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  i 
esh  at  ease  their  broom-stick  of . 
"».•  hazel-shadowed  n  at 
A 

No  more  their  mimic  ton<  b  be  heard  — 
The  mew  of  <;<t  —  the  chirp  of  ; 
Shrill  blending  \s  iih  the 
( )i'  tin'  fell  demon  follow  iog  sib  r ! 

!  ood-man  nails  do  d 

A  horse-shoe  on  his  out*  r  d< 

)  i    •  tome  unseemly  hag  should  lit 

To  his  <<u  n  mouth  her  bridle-bit  — 

The  good-**  ife'a  churn  no  more  refu 

Its  wonted  culinary 

Until,  with  heated  oeedle  burned, 

The  w  itch  has  to  her  place  returned  ! 

Our  w  itches  are  no  longer  i 

And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 

But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  c 

With  the  heart's  sunshine  <»n  the  -  — 

Their  sorcery  —  the  light  which  dano 

Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glano 


122  EXTRACT. 

Or  that  low  breathed  and  gentle  tone 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore, 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore  ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn  — 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid  her  ; 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress,  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invader  : 
So  perished  Albion's  "  glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries ; 
And  nought  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise  — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "  catechize," 

Or,  "  Webster's  Spelling  Book." 

THE    END. 


Poetical    111  o  r  k  0 , 

Publishtil  in  uniform  $tyl  /nijnr  '""'  ?00'^  tyJi' 

\Y  1  MIA  II     I).    TICKNOR, 


,   POEMS,  Narratiyi   \m>  Lyrical;  by  William  Moth- 
erwell,     i  vol.  1 6 

"  There  is  a  strain  of  pleasing  melancholy  in  mat  M        rwcll's 

poems  which  reminds  us  <.t  ihe  "id  English  ballads.     This  little 

work  will  |  .'.lincnt 

ami  pleasmnl  rersificaii 

ris.-  from  the  panMal  of  tins  follDDfl  without  par- 
ticipating in  1 1 •  •  -  editor'!  wonder  thai  il  baa  MM  been  reprinted 
before.     There  is  no  fe<  erwell,  no  mawkii 

timentality,  no  straining  aAer  effect,  but   bii  Fresh, 

nature]  and  original,  teeming  with  ipreasion,  and  rich 

an  I  appropriate  i 
tin-  fine  Lmas  inatiou  i  i  from  which  t  i 

POEMS,  by    Ufred  Teonyion.    9  rob. 

"  Tin-  perusal  of  tins  complete  edition  of  tin-  poet  will  make  tin: 
reader  familiar  with  one  of  the  moel  deeplj  imaginative  ami  af- 
fecting barda  <>t  tin'  d 

M  Of  the  living  )ii>' -n  ol  England,  we  include  not  the  few  choice 
spirits  of  Scotland,  Tennyson  a!  tliis  time  occupies  perhaps  as 
eminenl  a  rank  as  any.  and  is  destined  t"  i  high  regard." 

••  There  are  few  Living  poeta,  who  ean  he  compared  with  Teaayaoo, 
m  ttose  peculiar  distinctive  oualitiea,  which  raise  tti<'  trex  poet 
to  that  anich  apprehenaioB  <•!  spiritual  beauty,  which  rurniahea 
him  wild  perpetual  inspiration,  and  to  the  glad  World  an  over- 
flow;: 


POETICAL    WOKKS. 


3.  REJECTED  ADDRESSES,  or  the  New  Theatrum 

Poetarum  ;  by  Horace  and  James  Smith  ;  from  the  19th 

London  edition,  carefully  revised,  with  an  original  preface 

and  notes. 

"  Many  who  recollect  this  work  from  the  time  of  its  first  ap- 
pearance, will  be  glad  to  see  it  again,  and  those  who  now  read 
it  for  the  first  time  will  find  in  it  a  rich  fund  of  humor." 

"  The  Rejected  Addresses  contain  the  most  successful  poetical 
parodies  in  our  language,  and  although  Poems  are  proverbially 
unprofitable  to  the  trade,  we  are  confident  this  volume  will  prove 
as  salable  as  they  have  always  been  popular." 

"  Rejected  Addresses  is  an  attempt  to  imitate  the  style  of  the  cel- 
ebrated poets  of  the  day,  and  so  admirable  is  the  imitation  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  he  wrote  to  the  author  that  he  must  have 
written  the  article  ascribed  to  him  and  mislaid  it,  though  he 
had  then  forgotten  about  it." 

4.  THE  AGE  OF  GOLD,  and  other  Poems  ;  by  George 
Lunt. 

"  The  first  poem  is  a  rare  production  for  the  present  age,  both  in 
its  thought,  and  poetical  arrangement ;  it  is  a  gem-like  work, 
stamped  with  truth  and  beauty,  and  having  a  high  morale  about 
it,  which  perfects  a  composition  possessing  all  the  elements  of 
true  poesy." 

"  Mr.  Lunt's  aim  in  the  c  Age  of  Gold '  has  been  to  prove  that 
fancy  and  truth  may  be  joined  in  wedlock  ;  and  that  the  moral 
of  the  verse  may  be  as  pure  as  its  ornaments  are  enticing  and 
sweet." 

"  The  author  of  this  volume  is  so  well  known  to  the  public  as  an 
able  and  accomplished  writer  and  poet,  that  nothing  we  can  say 
in  his  favor  is  likely  to  advance  his  reputation." 

5.  BIRDS     AND    FLOWERS,   and     other    Country 

Things  ;   by  Mary  Howitt.     2d  edition  ;  with  engravings. 

Extract  from  the  Preface.  "  This  volume  has  been  written  lit- 
erally among  birds  and  flowers  ;  and  has  been  my  pleasant 
occupatiou  through  the  last  summer  months  ;  and  now  it  is  com- 
pleted, my  earnest  wish  is,  that  it  may  convey  to  many  a  young 
heart  a  relish  for  the  enjoyment  of  quiet  country  pleasures  ;  a 
love  for  every  living  creature,  and  that  strong  sympathy  which 
must  grow  in  every  pure  heart  for  the  great  human  family." 


MISCELLANEOUS    WORKS. 

o.  COPLAS  DE  DON  JORGE  MANRIQ1 

from  tin.-  Spanish,  with   an   [otrodactoi  •  on  the 

votional   Pot  u\        S      a ;   by   I* 
Henry  W.  Longfellow,  author;  of'1 

11  JJ;i;  5.  "(  Nitre  .M'  ■ 

The  6bh '  i  "I  ihi^  little  work  i»  to  place  in  the  I 
rr>  o?  Spanish  literature  the  mosl  beautiful  i 

I  ]iri:n< -.i  wiih  the  t. 


fKisccllanams    DjoI\0. 


OON]  I  F  AN  ENGLISH  OPIUM  EAT] 

iu.iNu  \-.  i  -  from 

the  last  London  edition. 

"The  American  publisher  this  work 

which  he  «  lo  fulfil  iu  tln^  countn  or  in  I 

i  to  i^m-  :  I 

tinted  \\  ilh  il  Iwentj  yea 

ditional,  In-  trusts  its  i  will  do|  be  unw< 

for  i  In-  authorship  and  authenticity  ol  i  I  s,M  the 

former  has  been  attributed  wi  D     I  tnd  the 

latter  is  belien  d  lo  I  e  unqui  slioo  i 

•  De  Quincy  slates  the  pleasures  and  p  i'mm 

isl  experience.     Thi   motive  which  impelled  him  la 
the  book  was  t"  warn  others  of  the  Circean  spells  which  the 
drug  cast  round  it->  rictims,  and  t<>  expose  many  of  the  errors 
and  absurdities  into  which  physicians  had  fallen  fi 
experimental  kn<  I  i  -        ifessi    is  were 

nut  obtruded  upon  the  public  io  excite  interest  or  coauniseratioa 


MISCELLANEOUS    WORKS. 


for  himself,  and  to  add  one  more  book  to  the  satanic  and  convul- 
sive school  of  literature,  for  he  allows  that  "nothing  is  more  re- 
volting to  English  feelings  than  the  spectacle  of  a  human  being 
obtruding  on  our  notice  the  moral  scars  or  ulcers,  and  tearing 
away  that '  decent  drapery,'  which  time  or  indulgence  to  human 
frailty,'  may  have  drawn  over  them."  The  author  deemed  that 
the  class  of  opium  eaters  was  much  larger  than  most  people  sup- 
posed, and  that  ignorance  of  its  inevitable  effects  led  many  into 
the  practice  to  assuage  pain.  It  is  well  known  that  Coleridge 
died  a  martyr  to  it. 

Of  the  literary  merits  of  De  Quincy's  book,  no  reader  of  taste 
can  be  insensible.  There  is  a  naturalness  about  the  confessions 
which  impresses  the  reader  with  their  truth.  The  style  of  the 
work  is  excellent, —  at  times  flowing  along  majestically,  and 
bearing  upon  its  bosom  the  grandest  and  most  beautiful  thoughts 
and  images,  and  at  others  dashing  by  with  a  quick,  rapid  motion, 
and  sparkling  with  wit.  There  is  a  slender  vein  of  autobiogra- 
phy running  through  the  book,  wnich  adds  much  to  its  interest, 
and  the  reader  closes  it  with  an  intense  sympathy  for  the  author, 
and  an  earnest  wish  that  he  had  amplified  his  confessions  in  a 
larger  volume." 

COMBE  ON  THE  CONSTITUTION  OF  MAN,  con- 
sideied  in  relation  to  External  Objects,  with  an  Additional 
Chapter  on  the  Harmony  between  Phrenology  and  Reve- 
lation ;  by  Joseph  A.  Warne,  A.  M. 

This  valuable  work  has  already  reached  the  14th  edition  in  this 
country,  and  has  been  very  much  enlarged.  It  is  universally 
acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  most  important  books  that  has 
yet  appeared,  as  the  subjects  of  which  it  treats  are  all  entitled 
to  the  highest  consideration.  Among  its  contents  are  embraced 
remarks  on  the  natural  laws  of  man  ;  on  the  constitution  of 
man,  and  its  relation  to  external  objects  ;  on  the  sources  of  hu- 
man happiness,  and  the  conditions  requisite  for  maintaining  it ; 
on  the  application  of  the  natural  laws  to  the  practical  arrange- 
ments of  life ;  on  the  calamities  arising  from  infringements  of 
the  laws  of  nature  ;  on  punishments,  &c.  &c. 

This  volume  is  published  by  William  D.  Ticknor,  to  whom  orders 
for  single  copies,  or  quantities  at  a  liberal  discount,  may  be  ad- 
dressed. Every  family  in  our  country  should  be  supplied  with 
copies,  and  no  public  or  private  library  should  be  without  them. 

MENTAL  CULTURE  ;    or  the  Means   of  Developing 

the  Human  Faculties  ;  by  J.  L.  Levison. 

Extract  of  a  Letter  to  the  Publishers,  by  a  Minister  in  the  vicinity 
of  Boston.  —  "lam  gratified  to  learn  that  you  have  concluded 


MISCELLANEOUS    WOKKS. 


to  republish  Levisoa'i  ilture.    I  have  road  it  with 

interest,  and  conceive  thai  the  principles  opon  which  be 
recommends  ihe  education  "I  youth  t"  e  those 

which i  correspond  with  the  nature  of  mat  Mas  in 

this  couutry  tbej  are  new,  but   the]  will  not,  therefore,  I 
demned.     This,  sun  ly,  is  tl  m«  hich  an 

old  error  should  I"-  pn  new  truth       I  nee  on 

whii  p    l 

count*  i  of  fortune  telling,"  when  il 

it  will  be)  that,  hi  discoverii  r  « bat 

be  is,  il  afford  -  1 1 1  ■  •  gi 
Peelings,  and  Intellectual  I 
ri  ndertng  him  wh 

cannot  be  too  strongl)  rccoinmendi  m  with 

mind,  the  material  on  •  lu<  h 
gesting  i"  i!i«  in  the  pn 

>  tli<'  pointed  roll  d  and 

■ 
iallj  prayi  i  .  more 

num<  rous.  I, ut  1  greet 

us  they  ii",  from  the  n  ith  up- 

rooting the  foundations  of  religion,  thej   :» ti. ir. i  prool  that  that 
philosophy  is  slandered  in  i  ."lis. 

/'        Rev.  J.  P 
it  i-,  iod<  ed  i r i v  a]  one  who  would  know  a  hat  i 

or  Itmr  he  may  !>••  mat 

\    TES  r\Mi:\T.     .h-t  published,  by  William  I). 

Ticknor,  :i  beaatiful   L9mo  edition  of  tl 

mi  n  i .  printed  od  fine  paper  and  1  1  i lt<>- 

pctlicr  thr  best  one  of  tl  r  printed  in  the  country 

mis  type,  paper  and  bind 

•  Wf  hope  this  beautiful  volume  will  !"•  found  in  all  <>tir  fam 
in  place  of  those  dim  and  contraci  which  rendei  the 

I  rola to  iinattnu tno  in  n>  outward  appeal 

I  1 1 

"  This  volume  is  printed  in  the  taste,    ii  is  t-l.-ar  and 

handsome,  without  I  eing  formal  or  show  y.    As  to  size  and 
we  have  seen  no  copj   "I  the  Testament  better  calculated  for 
genera]  u  / !  I       ier. 

"As  regards  printing,  paper,  and  binding,  this  is  th.>  best  edition 
.  in  the  country.    Such  a  si/o  has  ,  anted." 

/ !  M  l ' 

"  I  receive  I  with  much  pleasure  a  ropy  of  your  late  edition  of  the 

New  Testaiiunt.     It  IS  one  of  the   most  htaulil'ul  looks  that  1 


MISCELLANEOUS    WORKS. 


have  ever  seen,  and  I  rejoice  that  the  same  skill  and  taste  in 
typography,  which  have  been  so  successfully  employed  in  ren- 
dering other  subjects  and  books  attractive,  have  been  so  happily 
applied  in  this  instance  to  the  sacred  writings.  I  attach  a  high 
moral  importance  to  such  editions.  I  believe  that  among  per- 
sons not  religiously  interested  in  the  Bible,  respect  and  reverence 
for  it  have  been  diminished  by  the  uncomely  form  in  which  it  is 
most  frequently  seen."  Extract  of  a  letter  from  Rev.  Andrew 
P.  Peabody. 

Prices.  Sheep  binding,  plain,  Sl,00;  Roan  do.  do.  $1.50;  Calf 
do.  do.  Si, 73  ;  do.  do.  gilt  edge,  $2.00  ;  Turkey  morocco,  plain,  $2,50  ; 
do.  do.  gilt  edge,  $3,00. 


PHILLIPS'S    MINERALOGY. 

IN  PRESS,  and  will  shortly  be  published,  by  William  D. 
Ticknor,  a  new  edition  of  Phillips's  Mineralogy,  much 
enlarged  and  improved  ;  edited  by  Francis  Alger,  member 
of  the  American  Academy  of  Sciences,  of  the  Boston  So- 
ciety of  Natural  History,  &c.  &c. 

The  additions  will  consist  of  the  new  minerals  discovered  since  the 
date  of  the  last  Knglish  edition,  as  made  known  in  the  principal 
foreign  and  American  scientific  journals  and  reports,  together 
with  all  the  important  facts  and  observations  which  have  been 
communicated  through  the  same  sources  that  tend  to  enlarge  our 
knowledge  of  this  most  interesting  department  of  natural  science. 

Much  new  matter  has  been  added  to  the  crystallographical  part  of 
the  treatise,  and  about  fifty  new  figures  have  been  added  to  the 
Introduction,  besides  original  drawings  of  natural  crystals  among 
the  descriptions  of  species.  Considerable  additions  have  also 
been  made  to  the  chemical  part,  with  the  analyses  of  new  and 
interesting  species  by  Messrs.  Jackson  and  Hayes.  The  com- 
position of  the  minerals  will  be  given  in  the  usual  per  centage 
form,  and  then  by  formulae  expressions  the  atomic  proportions 
of  their  ingredients.  The  aim  has  been  by  the  editor  to  make 
it  a  useful  and  acceptable  treatise  and  text-book  for  the  student. 

The  publisher  would  add  that  Phillips's  Treatise  has  proved  the 
most  popular  book  ever  published  on  Mineralogy,  and  the  late 
fourth  edition,  by  Mr.  Allan,  is  now  nearly  out  of  print.  Pro- 
fessor Brande,  in  his  Dictionary  of  Science,  thus  alludes  to  this 
work.  "One  of  the  most  useful  practiced  works  on  mineralogy, 
and,  in  our  language  at  least,  the  most  available  for  the  use  of  the 
student,  is  Mr.  Allan's  edition  of  the  elementary  introduction  to 
that  science  by  the  late  Mr.  William  Phillips." 


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